


always summer

by thomasbarrowlesbian



Series: always summer, always alone [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Summer, Summer Romance, Use of the Word Clodhopper, retconning the I don’t know any men like I am line bc I think its DUMB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasbarrowlesbian/pseuds/thomasbarrowlesbian
Summary: It's the summer of 1909, and Thomas Barrow and Peter Pelham enter a doomed romance.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Peter Pelham
Series: always summer, always alone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554532
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	always summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lomonte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonte/gifts).



**_1909_ **

Despite the subtle breeze drifting in through the drawing room windows, the day’s heat was still stifling, and Thomas was sweating beneath the layers of his livery. He stood parallel to a grand, mahogany clock, winding it slowly, breathing in rhythm with the movement. The crank was gripped firmly in his hand, feeling the gentle friction of the wheels rotating. He frowned. The movement felt more strained than it usually did, as if one of the gears was mildly clogged. He would have to add the cleaning of this clock to his ever growing to-do list, though he didn’t mind that much. Of all his tasks in the house, it was his favourite, because he knew what he was doing, and he did it well. The butler, Mr Scott, was very happy to let Thomas service the clocks at Sulgrave Manor himself, even though he was only a junior footman. In fact, his knowledge of clock maintenance had been pivotal in the butler agreeing to take him on in the first place, despite him having little experience as a hall boy and none at all as a footman. 

Mr Scott didn’t need to know the meager references he did have had been forged. Or that all his prior knowledge of service had been persuaded out of a valet he’d slept with in the Spring before.

Brushing a humming fly away from its face, he leaned closer to the clock, listening out for the _click, click, click_ of the wheels. The sound of soft, stilted footsteps on the carpet made him halt and look over his shoulder. Though it wasn't evident under his fixed expression, the source of the noise surprised him. A man Thomas had never met before was standing across from him - and he would _know_ if he had met this man.

He was taller than Thomas, his limbs just a tad too long for him to be considered graceful. Locks of his hair curled over his forehead and ears, it desperately needed to be cut and styled. It was darker underneath, but the top shone strawberry blond in the light from the window. His nose was pointed and severe, but it was offset by his easy smile and kind eyes. On someone else those features might seem boyish, but there was a lack of naivety in his expression that made Thomas sure that he must be at least his age. This was clearly a nobleman, but judging by the state of his dress, he must not have a valet. Or, at least, not a very good one. 

“May I help you, sir?”

The man seemed just as taken aback to see him.

“I… Sorry.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. The man was giving him a thorough lookover that he couldn’t quite read.

“I must have... gotten turned around,” the stranger spoke distractedly as he began to back out of the room. He took one more glance back at Thomas as he walked out the way he came, but not without catching his elbow on the door frame. “Ow. Sorry.” 

And then Thomas was staring at the empty doorway where he’d stood, wondering if this had all been a hallucination.

* * *

“A nobleman,” Thomas enunciated the words with an air of suspicion. “Just wandered into the drawing room while I was winding the clocks. And then he left just as queerly. I assumed he was a guest, but he didn’t look all together. Covered in paint and such.” 

He paused to chew on a hunk of bread. It was lunchtime in the servants' hall, and Thomas was regaling the table with his opinions as he often did. He was aware of how the younger housemaids and hallboys would hang on his every word like fish on hooks, and this only fuelled him more. 

Rodney, the first footman, chuckled. “Oh, that must’ve been Lord Hexham’s son. I’m going to valet for him while they’re staying.” He looked far too happy about that for Thomas’ liking.

“ _That_ was the future Marquess of Hexham?” Thomas sneered incredulously. “Besides, they weren’t supposed to be arriving until this evening.”

“Well, they arrived this morning while you were in town. Lord Strudwick's nose was all out of joint about them showing up early with no warning.” Rodney looked up from where he was buttering his own bread. “And I served him tea after they got here. I thought him very polite. Rather eloquent.” 

“ _Him_ ?” Thomas thought of the stumbling, incoherent man he had met in the drawing room. He had seemed well-intentioned enough, but far from _eloquent_.

“Oh, don’t be nasty, Thomas.” Rodney rolled his eyes and sighed. He was two years Thomas’ elder, and this meant he liked to act as if everything Thomas said was inherently juvenile.

“Yes, no discussion of guests - especially at _lunch_. You know that.” Scott’s scolding was half-hearted but Thomas still scowled, prickling with embarrassment. The table started to eat once more.

“Besides,” Rodney continued, quiet enough that Scott couldn’t overhear. “I would’ve thought you’d have liked him.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, he’s obviously… Well. Artistic.” 

Artistic. His chewing slowed. 

“Yes.” He tried to sound casual, though it came out drenched in skepticism. “I did mention the paint all over him. I wouldn’t think an heir to a marquess would be in the drawing room in that state.”

“Not like that. He’s _artistic_ . You know. _Sensitive._ ”

Thomas stilled.

He and Rodney had sniffed each other out practically the moment they’d laid eyes on each other, even though at the time Thomas had been doing everything in his power to conceal that part of him. He had been very, very careful since he had arrived at Sulgrave. The confrontation with his father that had preceded his employment there had scared him enough that he was still overly cautious. Still, they had sensed that unique kind of kinship with one another - their lives had run so parallel that they could recognise it in each other, every wary glance, every reluctant touch, every deflective joke. And since Rodney had been right about him, he was probably also right about Peter.

He gave Rodney a significant look. 

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.” He said with a quirk of his lip. Rodney only raised an eyebrow in return.

* * *

Dinner that night was more entertaining than most. Thomas was serving, which gave him the chance to get a read on Peter Pelham. Whenever he had leaned over to offer him a dish, the man would blush right to his ears, his hand fumbling over the serving spoons. Rodney had clearly been onto something.

Most notably, during the third course Peter had knocked over an entire glass of wine. He’d had his eyes on Thomas rather than the table, misjudging the position of his wine glass and catching the rim with his outstretched hand. The look Lord Hexham gave his son made it clear he was furious - and given it had been a red, the maids would be as well. Thomas’ face and posture stayed rigid as a statue, but his mind and heart were racing. He had no doubt that Peter’s attention had been on him.

Thomas wasn’t expecting to see him again that night, once he’d ensured the upstairs fires had all been lit and was heading back downstairs. Peter was walking down the corridor at such a speed that he didn’t even see Thomas coming around the corner. It was only Thomas’ sharp reflexes that prevented them from completely colliding into each other. Peter still threw a hand out to steady himself, catching Thomas’ sleeve then quickly releasing it. Thomas was surprised to see tears in the man’s eyes.

“Oh- it’s you.” He tried for an unconvincing smile. “Hello again. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Thomas, milord.”

“Oh, you don’t need to call me that. I don’t feel like much of a lord.” He laughed wetly and sniffed. 

Thomas glanced down the hallway to make sure they were alone.

“I…” He shifted uncomfortably. Surely this was beyond impertinent. “Are you… alright?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I’m just being silly. It’s just my father. He gave me quite the dressing down after dinner. He was awfully angry.” Peter blinked rapidly, ceasing the now dwindling tears. 

“Why? What for?”

“I was just a klutz at dinner. I knocked over a glass.”

“Oh. Yes. I was watching,” Thomas took a step towards him. Surely a bit of flirtation would cheer the man up. Or at least distract him for the moment. “ _And_ I was watching you watching me.” 

“Perhaps I was.” Peter stammered, his wide eyes looking searchingly into Thomas’. “You’re very distracting, you know.”

Thomas was close enough to see his blond eyelashes.

Peter shook his head, as if to wake himself from his daze. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if it’s the wine going to my head, or if it’s just you. You’re….” Once again it seemed Peter was completely at a loss for words.

He moved as though to take Thomas’ hand in his, but at the last moment let his hand fall back to his side. Even Peter’s fingers were long and delicate, with knobbly knuckles and paint caught under his nails. _Artist’s hands,_ Thomas thought. He checked over shoulder. The corridor remained empty. He reached for Peter and took his wrist in his hands, rubbing at a stroke of red paint there. 

“Look at you,” Thomas tsked as he found another spot on his shirt cuff. “I don’t envy your valet.”

That wasn’t entirely true. If Thomas got to undress this man everyday, he was sure he wouldn’t complain about having to soak his shirtsleeves.

Peter only swallowed, his eyes fixed on where Thomas’ fingers laid upon his forearm.

“You do _have_ a valet?” Thomas fidgeted with the stiff cuff of Peter’s sleeve. 

“Yes, at Brancaster... Though he gets rather cross with me, I’m afraid he might run for the hills and leave me to fend for myself,” he laughed breathlessly.

“Well, we can’t have that.” His fingers traced the tendons of Peter’s wrist. “You need someone to look after you.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Perhaps.”

“You would have your work cut out for you.” His gaze reluctantly rose from where Thomas was brushing his fingers over his knuckles. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth”

“I wouldn’t say _that_.” Thomas looked up at him through his lashes. “I’m sure there would be some benefits.” 

Peter’s stare was locked on his as he entangled their fingers together, pulling Thomas a step towards him so they were practically chest to chest. Peter’s eyes were searching his, for assurance, for affirmation, and he must have found it.

“...Will you come to my room tonight?”

* * *

It was 1 o’clock in the morning, and Thomas was stood in the men’s corridor, just a few paces from Peter’s doorway.

He had spent the last hour in his room, eyes glazing over the same page of his book a dozen times before he dropped it with a sigh and flopped onto his bed to spend the remainder of the time staring at the ceiling. His heart had already been racing in his ribcage. Restlessly he waited until it felt like an adequate amount of time had passed, and then waited a few minutes more. 

He was decidedly nervous. He had snuck into bedrooms before, upstairs and downstairs - that wasn’t the issue. 

It was Peter. Something about him, about the attention he gave Thomas, unnerved him. Despite this, it also made him feel more fulfilled than he had ever felt. The idea of being seen and being known made him deeply uncomfortable, and yet the intimacy was one he had always craved.

The door had been left open a sliver so that a wedge of golden light illuminated the hallway. He approached the room and looked in cautiously. Peter was in there, sitting at the ornate desk, his skin a warm orange in the glow of the lamp. He wore a soft robe that looked exotic, draped flatteringly over his wiry frame.

Thomas tapped gently against the door frame, and Peter immediately looked up and smiled, inviting him in with a jerk of his head. He stepped inside and latched the door closed as gently as possible.

“You came.”

“Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Peter didn’t answer. 

He rose and walked over to stand before Thomas. He stood as though he was just slightly too aware of his posture. It was the only thing that gave away his own nerves.

“You can get more comfortable, if you like. It’s a warm night.”

The night _was_ uncomfortably humid. Thomas could already feel himself sweating, his skin laced with an unpleasant stickiness. 

Peter took the task upon himself as he began to work on removing Thomas’ tie. His nimble fingers released the knot and he used both hands to slide it out from under Thomas’ collar. A warmth began to thrum in Thomas’ stomach as he felt the electric touch of Peter’s fingers against his neck. He started on Thomas’ buttons, caressing his collarbones as he took his time unfastening each one, exposing his undershirt below.

“This seems a bit backwards,” Thomas acknowledged, slightly breathless.

Peter laughed softly. “Maybe you should be the one taken care of for once.”

He took Thomas’ hands from where they lay stiffly at his sides. His touch was burning hot.

“My… My hands are cold.” Thomas said awkwardly. Peter brought Thomas’ hands to his own face and placed his icy fingers upon his cheeks, still covering them with his own.

“Don’t you know the saying?” Peter asked. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

“Does that make your heart cold, then?” Thomas said. It was the wrong thing to say, he could recognise that he had mistepped as soon as he said it. He saw Peter falter for a moment before the return of that smile that Thomas had at first thought so easy. 

“Not with you around.”

And Thomas had to kiss him then.

Their hands were still plastered to Peter’s face, and Thomas used this to his advantage, dragging Peter closer, their noses crashing together almost painfully. They stumbled a moment from the force of it, Peter throwing a hand behind him to use his desk to steady himself. Thomas continued to pursue him, pressing their bodies together flush so that Peter was crowded against the furniture. His’ hands slid roughly from Peter’s cheeks to grip fervently to the fabric of his shirt. Breathless, Peter withdrew to press a series of frantic kisses to Thomas’ forehead, his cheekbones, his jaw, his throat, his collarbone.

Thomas burrowed his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, gasping, and pressed his fist against his chest, feeling the rapid pounding of his heartbeat.

“Doesn’t feel so cold to me.” 

Peter let out a surprised laugh and found his mouth once more.

* * *

Thomas lay in Peter’s arms, feeling pleasantly weightless, solid only where Peter’s skin touched his. His eyes wanted so desperately for sleep, but he was just as desperate to keep looking at Peter. He was infatuated with how he looked in the amber glow of the candles, half a dream and half impossibly real.

Peter was smoking a cigarette, holding it to Thomas’ lips every now and then so he could take a languid drag. 

“My father was furious at me about that wine. He thought I was drunk at dinner. I wasn’t - though I can’t blame him, I suppose. I often am. They’re all so much for me to handle, and sometimes it’s hard for me to stop.” His fingers drew a path down Thomas’ side. “I’ve never known how to do anything in moderation.”

Thomas could sympathise with that. Not so much the alcohol, he had never had the means to get drunk often - but with people. He got addicted to people. He knew he was one to fall too hard too fast. Past experience had shown him he’d made a habit of jumping in too quickly, devoting himself completely to those who didn’t care for him in the same way. Desperate enough for genuine affection that he would imagine it if he had to. Whether it was a childhood friend who would only talk to him when no one else was around to see, or a zealous lover who swore he would leave his wife, only for him to stop answering Thomas’ letters less than a month later. But he had grown, surely, he had _learnt-_

“I’m not one to care much what other people think of me, I’m really not. But he says these things to me, even things that seem so insignificant, and it makes me wish I could jump out the nearest window, just to get away from him.”

Thomas stilled where he was twining Peter’s curls between his fingers comfortingly. “You shouldn’t let him get to you so much.” 

“I do try not to. At least, not to his face… And it wasn’t really about the wine.” Peter said wryly. “I know that. He’s just angry because I won’t shoot and I won’t court and I won’t mingle - he wants me to play the role, but I won’t do it.”

“Why don’t you?” Thomas asked, curious. He didn’t believe Peter _should_ of course. But surely it would make his life much easier, to bend to his father’s will. And it took a special kind of person to willingly make their own life harder.

Peter thought for a moment. “I can’t stand the thought of them only loving me because I’m making myself... digestible to them. Of them swallowing me whole even though they can’t stand the taste of me.” His eyes were unfocused, candles flickering in their reflection. “I’d rather they choke on me.”

He seemed to come back to himself and turned his attention back to Thomas.

“But _you_ , you savour me.” He linked his fingers with Thomas’ and pressed his forehead to his. “You savour me, and you save me.” Peter laughed a little at his own wordplay. 

Thomas kissed him again. Perhaps to prove Peter’s point, or maybe just to stop him from saying any more. Peter’s words stirred something tender deep inside him, and yet he still couldn’t believe them. Or didn’t want to. He knew he was paranoid, but surely he had to be, for his own survival. 

“Do you have a sweet tooth, darling?” Peter murmured into the kiss, shaking Thomas from his thoughts.

“I suppose.”

“ _I_ do.” He brought Thomas’ hand up to his mouth, and punctuated his words with a kiss to his palm. “I must sneak you out tomorrow. I’ve got a plan.”

“I’m free all tomorrow afternoon, so I suppose you can sneak me wherever you like.”

* * *

It was hard to say exactly why Thomas was so infatuated with the romance of summer. Maybe it was because he’d spent so much of his life stuck indoors. Whether it was in his childhood home, or his father’s shop, or Sulgrave Manor, it didn’t make much of a difference when he was shut inside.

It was an exceptionally hot day in England, even for summer. The bicycles that had been abandoned on the grass were now too hot to ride at risk of burning themselves against the sun-warmed metal. Brown bottles of ginger beer sweated where they were balanced on the picnic blanket, leaving rings of dark wetness on the fabric. Peter had put his sweet-talking to use on the manor’s cook, which had resulted in an elaborate picnic lunch of freshly baked bread with butter and fruits and cheeses. There was even a chilled bottle of white wine, and glasses packed securely in a tea towel. These fields were far enough away from the house that they didn’t get the regular upkeep of the manor lawns so the flowers were mostly weeds, but they still provided a brightly dotted landscape.

Thomas had forgone the blanket that had been laid out to instead stretch out leisurely in the grass, basking in the sun like a cat. The air was warm and thick, leaving him pleasantly sleepy in his spot of sun. This was the kind of day that Thomas thought of as a challenge to be as slow and sluggish as you could manage. Relenting to his drowsiness, he closed his eyes and felt the hot thrum of the bright sunlight against his eyelids. He had to drape his forearm over his face for some relief, the typically concealed skin of his wrist exposed to the sun.

“Thomas.”

“Hm?”

He sat up midway, putting his weight onto his arm placed behind him, squinted in the sudden, harsh light. Sitting across from him on the gingham blanket, Peter was offering him a freshly poured flute of wine. He accepted it and took a careful sip. The bubbles prickled his nose and he grimaced. He was sure he had never had wine this expensive before, though he couldn't taste much of a difference.

“What is all that?’ Thomas eyed the paraphernalia Peter was unpacking from his satchel over the rim of his glass. First he brought out an artist’s palette, small enough to be convenient for travelling, and plated with silver. Next was a leatherbound pad of thick paper, only just able to fit in his satchel. Peter still hadn’t answered him, and just smiled at him charmingly. _Too_ charmingly.

“What is it?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Would you sit for me? Would you let me paint you?”

“Me?” Thomas asked, incredulously. Paintings weren't meant for the likes of him. They were for noblemen or great seascapes. Or bowls of fruit. He knew he was handsome enough, but he had never considered himself striking enough to be captured on a canvas.

“You would make a gorgeous portrait, Thomas. Your bone structure, your cheekbones... You’re beautiful in a way that is beyond human capability. I look at you and I think, ‘Surely this is how a mortal feels looking at Apollo.’” Thomas’ cheeks began to flush. Peter really was staring at him the way you would admire a work in a museum. “And your colouring, it’s so stark, so distinct. I can’t even put it into words, my darling. I wish I could, you deserve the most exquisite poetry ever written.” Peter’s gaze fell languidly from Thomas’ eyes to his mouth. “And your lips…”

“Oh, would you stop flanneling,” Thomas scoffed - though he had to take a drink of his wine. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You will let me paint you, though?” Peter’s tone was hopeful, but Thomas knew without a doubt that if he said no, the topic would be dropped, that Peter would never want him to make him uncomfortable. 

He couldn’t say no to him, though.

“Fine,” Thomas relented. He knew he was coming across a bit more eager than he meant to.

Peter beamed at him. 

"Oh, I'm so thankful that you’ve agreed, Thomas. This could be my magnum opus!” He was already starting to lay out his materials in front of him, pencil in hand. “If you’re Apollo, then I must be Hyacinthus. And this painting shall be the flower that blooms from my blood.”

"Hyacinthus died." Thomas corrects him. "You're not dead."

"No. I suppose not."

The palette had unfolded to reveal paint pans of eight different colours, concave and well used. Despite them being slightly muddied, Thomas was still easily able to identify the original colours, the deep reds and greens, the vibrant yellows and blues. A groove in the palette also held paintbrushes of various sizes made with a fine but stiff hair, horse or ox perhaps, and varnished wooden handles. Peter also pulled a pencil out of a narrow pocket in his satchel, the tip of the lead blunt from use. He flipped the cover over his pad over with a flourish, using one hand to hold the pad upright and poising his pencil with the other. His pencil scratching roughly against the textured paper, he began to sketch Thomas’ form. Thomas instinctively straightened up, protruding his chin outwards, shoulders back. A life in service ensured that he was hyper-aware of his posture nearly all of the time.

“Oh- no, no.” Peter laughed, not unkindly. “I want to paint _you_ , Thomas, just as you are. Make yourself comfortable. Here,” he pushed a punnet of berries in Thomas’ direction. “Eat these. Relax.”

Thomas plucked up a strawberry reluctantly, and tried to imagine he was alone in his room as he ate it. It was difficult for him to feel at ease when he knew he was being observed in this way.

Two instincts were at war in his body. The first told him to run. Hide. Anything to distance himself from this man and his tender, careful gaze. The second wanted to expose his whole self to him, to rip away at his barbed outer layers until he was raw and bleeding out for him. The idea of keeping up the front he did for everyone else sickened him. But being looked at, really looked at, was not an experience Thomas was accustomed to. The life of a servant meant he spent much of his time trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible - people’s gazes would only flicker over him as they would a piece of furniture. Striving for invisibility was part of his job description.

But much of art must be observation, it seemed, if Peter's intense scrutiny of his form was anything to go by.

“Maybe you’re more Pygmalion than Hyacinthus.” Thomas mused aloud.

“I don’t know that one.”

Thomas started fiddle with the stem of the strawberry he’d had just eaten, plucking the leaves off one by one. “He was a sculptor. He made a statue that he named Galatea, and he carved her into his perfect companion. By the time he was finished, he had fallen in love with her, even though she was just a statue. But then he prayed to Aphrodite, and she answered his prayers, and Pygmalion’s love for Galatea brought her to life.”

Peter had stopped his drawing to give Thomas his full attention, the pencil in his hand forgotten.

“I think that’s very romantic.”

“I think he was a fool.”

“How so?” Peter asked, placing his pencil down in order to listen attentively. By now Thomas had moved on to the remains of one of Peter’s strawberries, rolling it between his fingers. There had still been some fruit left on the stem when Peter had discarded it, he hadn’t eaten right up to the white flesh as Thomas had. 

“No matter how beautiful she is, she’s still made of ivory.” Thomas’ lip curled distastefully. “Falling in love with a lifeless thing that can't love him back. What a clodhopper." 

Peter laughed heartily and shook his head. “You are just... extraordinary.”

“Hm?” Thomas looked up from his strawberries to see Peter was watching him with an expression of wonder.

Peter laughed. “I said, you’re _extraordinary_.” 

“You are so full of nonsense.” Thomas scoffed. 

“No, no, that’s the thing. I’m used to talking nonsense. I like to come up with pretty words, I try to make the world seem more beautiful than it really is. But you… You don’t need me to make you beautiful. You do well enough on your own.” He leaned forward, brow furrowed in sincerity, eyes lit up with affection. “I am so terribly fond of you.”

“I'm not like you, you know.” Thomas’ mouth was set firmly despite the contradictory vulnerability in his eyes. “I’m not... _good_.” He let his head fall back as his gaze dropped behind his shoulder. 

“I think you are,” Peter spoke with sincerity. Thomas’ attention snapped up from his pitiful pile of torn leaves back to Peter’s face, and he was awed to see the open earnestness there. “I think you're clever and witty, and kind hearted and generous - what is all that, if not goodness?”

The silence stretched out too long between them. All that could be heard was birdsong and the buzz of flies around their abandoned fruit stones. Thomas kept staring at Peter. He had been wooed by men before, but they had never sounded as invested or genuine as this. And he wasn't sure that _anyone_ had ever thought of him as good before. Not his lovers, not his acquaintances, not even his own family - certainly not himself. 

He put his hand to Peter’s jaw and kissed him, hard. 

He tasted like plums.

* * *

Over the next few days, Thomas didn’t see Peter as much outside of their shared nights. Peter had been shut up in his bedroom, and Thomas had been worked so hard if was impossible for him to get away for more than a moment at a time. But no matter what hour he made it to the upstairs corridor, Peter would be awake and waiting for him. He was beginning to wonder whether he slept at all. 

When Thomas slipped into his room that night, Peter was shirtless and hunched over his easel, lit only by candlelight. He looked up only long enough to give Thomas a smile in greeting before going back to his work. 

“What fantastic timing. I'm just finishing up.”

“So? I can see it now then?”

Peter grinned, his eyes crinkling. “I suppose you can. It’s your painting, after all."

 _My_ painting, Thomas thought. He had never had something like this that was for _him_ . Something that had taken such time and labour, dedicated to _him_.

He made his way over to Peter, and knelt behind him where he was crouched, his brush no longer working away at the paper. Thomas rested his chin on his shoulder and inspected the painting for the first time. 

The portrait was clearly recognisable as himself, but his features looked distorted. His right eye was far bigger than the left, and his jaw was at an odd angle that made his subdued expression look sly and off-putting. The colours were mostly accurate, though the paint was applied rather sloppily. And yet there was something oddly charming about the whole piece. Peter had even included the strawberry in there, oversized and hanging from his misshapen fingers. He didn't know why it was so unexpected to him that Peter’s painting was so like him, eccentric and unconventional, and not at all subtle or precise.

Peter nervously looked towards Thomas, making their cheeks press closer against one another.

“Do you like it?” 

“Yes,” Thomas said. It was the truth. “Very much.”

The fact was, despite the artworks quirks, being captured this way was the most sincerely heartfelt gift he had ever received. It didn't matter if it was lopsided or crude, when it was a token of Peter’s admiration for him. He hid his increasingly weepy face into the crook of Peter’s neck under the guise of pressing a firm, prolonged kiss to his shoulder.

“I love it,” he murmured, muffled by Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s hand reached behind him to wrap around the back of Thomas’ neck, gently guiding his face to his to catch his mouth in a kiss. He twisted himself around awkwardly so they were face to face. Peter’s skin was littered with strokes of paint, even his bare torso. Thomas skimmed his fingers down Peter’s chest, feeling all of the bones in his ribcage, and his steady heartbeat underneath. 

“You do? Really?” Peter’s grin was sheepish, his eyes glowing with affection. Thomas couldn't wane his growing smile and nodded enthusiastically before wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck and kissing him again. 

"You're amazing. I don’t deserve it."

"Oh my darling... You deserve everything. I do adore you, you know.”

Sometimes Peter would say things that would leave Thomas physically feeling it in his chest, his throat. Whether it was some sort of a possession or a hollowness, he couldn’t decipher, but it had never screamed at him so loud as when Peter spoke to him. Peter made him feel like Galatea, awakening from a cold, heartless existence to being suddenly overflowing with warmth and life.

“I’m rather fond of you too.” He fumbled over the words. It was a damning admission.

Peter kissed him, sated, the painting forgotten. 

* * *

“So? You’ve wooed him then?”

Rodney and Thomas had just come from the drawing room where Peter had not-so-subtly flushed down to his neck as soon as he’d laid eyes on Thomas. Not that Thomas had been much better, having to repress a blush and smile of his own. Seeing this, Rodney had somehow been able to convey a maximum amount of smugness in the smallest of eyebrow raises. Now though, in the privacy of the journey down the stairwell, he was free to share his mind. 

Thomas grinned and shoved him, nearly causing Rodney to drop the silver bucket he was carrying. “You pillock.”

“Our Tommy, all grown up.”

“I’m more _grown up_ than you think, you know.”

“Mm, but not as grown up as you _want_ me to think.” 

“I despise you.” 

Their conversation was cut short as they entered the bustling kitchen. The room was teeming with kitchen staff sweating in their aprons, hair spilling out from under their caps and plastered to their foreheads. The maids were efficient, immediately clearing their trays of the buckets full of half-melted slosh to replace them with fresh ice from the icebox. Due to the warmth of the night, Thomas, Rodney, or both were constantly being sent down for fresh ice. It wasn’t even that hot, comparatively, but the Strudwicks did like to kick up a fuss at every opportunity - especially when they had guests. 

With their now loaded trays, they began their ascent back up the stairs.

“You two aren’t slick, you know,” Rodney chided. “You are perhaps _the_ most blatant pair of homosexuals I’ve seen in my entire life.”

“You don't think Scott’s noticed, do you?” Thomas asked, suddenly nervous, puffing slightly as he tried to keep the tray balanced while still matching Rodney’s longer stride.

“Scott is so docile, I doubt he knows what room he’s in half the time. He wouldn’t notice a homosexual if one bit him on the behind-” 

“No one would ever want to. At least not one with good taste.” 

They both burst into snickers, hushing each other as they reached the floor. Lord Hexham was also arriving in the drawing room just as they turned the corner to place their buckets on the side table that Scott was overseeing with disinterest. He nodded approvingly at the ice, but held Rodney back from where he was beelining back to his post. 

“One more should do it, I think.”

Rodney looked at Thomas in such a way that Thomas could tell he was refraining from rolling his eyes. They easily could have carried an additional bucket on the last trip and saved Rodney all those stairs. 

Returning to his post near the door, Thomas’ eyes found Peter once more, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one. Thomas and Lord Hexham seemed to notice Peter’s attire at the same time. Thomas hadn’t acknowledged the jacket himself on his first visit to the drawing room that evening. He had been too distracted by the weight of Peter’s eyes upon him, and the redness of his freckled cheeks. Surely Lord Strudwick had noticed, but just wouldn't have found it polite to comment on such things to a guest. That, or Strudwick has assumed Peter’s father would deal with the matter himself and was saving himself the trouble. He was right.

“Peter,” his father whispered frantically, his teeth even bared like an animal. “That is a dinner jacket. What are you thinking?”

Peter looked down as if he was only seeing his outfit for the first time, then looked back at his father owlishly. “Oh. I didn’t realise. I told Rodney I could dress myself tonight, I suppose-”

“This is entirely inappropriate. Go up and change at once - and use your valet this time. You’re embarrassing yourself.” His tone was still unsettlingly quiet, and Peter’s expression was still hard as ivory, and coated with conviction. An outsider would never discern the dominance his father held over him. 

“Scott.” Lord Strudwick stepped in, demanding the butler’s attention with a gesture of his hand. “Where’s Rodney?” He clearly trying to umpire the situation.

“He’s just fetching more ice, milord. He’ll be back in a moment.” 

“Oh you needn’t trouble yourselves. Surely... Thomas can help.” Peter said with a deliberate pause, as if trying to recall his name. Thomas had to hold back a smile at Peter’s performance. “Would I be able to steal you away for a minute, to help me change?”

They both looked to Scott, who waved him away flippantly. Thomas nodded once, managing to maintain his blank expression despite the curious excitement building inside of him. 

“Certainly, milord.”

They headed up the stairs and down the corridor at a restrained speed until they reached Peter’s room, where Peter ushered him in, locked the door, and instantly had his mouth on Thomas’. Thomas laughed and sunk his fingers into Peter’s shirt, falling back against the closed door.

“You wore the wrong jacket on purpose.” Thomas said delightedly, gasping towards the ceiling. Peter’s attention had moved from his lips to his neck. 

Peter bit his lip and grinned sheepishly, his cheeks as red as ever. “I did. I just hope Rodney doesn’t get in any trouble about it downstairs.”

“It’d serve him right. Rodney’s a prat.” 

“But he’s one of ours?”

“Yeah. We look out for each other.”

As much as Thomas resented his pretentiousness, he couldn’t deny that Rodney’s seniority could be a comfort. Rodney was more experienced than Thomas, and would try his best to not let him be led too far astray. For his own part, Thomas could be just as protective back, when the need arose. He may be younger than Rodney, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hide every single one of Mr Scott’s pens after hearing him mock Rodney’s “feminine lilt”, or remind Rodney that his family were pricks when he looked too down in the mouth about not receiving any post for his birthday yet again.

“Good. That’s good, that you have someone looking out for you.” Peter’s gaze was earnest and so deeply amber, and he brushed his thumb against Thomas’ jaw. “I wanted to give you something.”

“It couldn’t have waited until tonight?” Thomas stole another kiss and pressed their foreheads together, eyes shut and breathing heavily.

“No.” Peter shook his head so that their noses brushed together. He withdrew, taking a moment before he stepped away, his hands sliding from Thomas’ shoulders down his arms to linger on his hands. He stepped over to the wooden easel set up in the corner of the room, removing the protective off-white sheet covering it to reveal Thomas’ painting. Picking up the artwork, he took one last look at it before turning back to Thomas. 

“Here, my darling,” Peter placed it in his hands. “It’s yours.”

“No,” Thomas said softly. He reluctantly let go of the painting, returning it to Peter’s grasp. “You should keep it. To make sure you don’t forget me.”

Peter stilled.

“I could never forget you, Thomas,” he said, looking at him sincerely. “Besides, I’ve had an idea.”

“Have you now?” Thomas asked, teasingly.

The painting placed back upon the easel, Peter took both of his hands and his bright, hopeful eyes met Thomas’. 

“Run away with me.”

“What?” Thomas asked with amusement.

“Come with me, to Tangiers. Oh Thomas, it’s gorgeous there, you would love it.”

Thomas stopped laughing and just stared at him incredulously. “Peter….”

“The sun is shining there all the time - I know you adore the sun. I adore it too, it makes you look golden, as if you've been touched by King Midas himself.” His eyes studied Thomas’ face, his lips parted as if in awe of him. “You really are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, my darling. I want to paint you for the rest of my life… It could be just the two of us, always. We can be together however we like.”

Thomas was still reeling. He couldn’t begin to wrap his head around the implications of what Peter was asking of him. The life Peter described sounded like a dream, a life of romance and art and sunshine. But, Thomas acknowledged regrettably, a dream was all it really could be - indulgent, blissful, but ultimately false. He sighed, conflicted, and crossed the room to rifle through Peter’s wardrobe. “I’m not sure we could be together ‘ _however we liked_ .’” Retrieving the appropriate jacket, he returned to his side, helping him change as he spoke. “You _really_ think two men would be allowed to be together in that way, even out of England?” 

“You could be my valet! No one will know the truth… And even if they do, why should anyone care?”

“What if someone _does_ care? It only takes one person, Peter, the wrong person, and they could ruin our lives in a moment!” He let out a humourless laugh. “Well, _my_ life at least. I don't _have_ money to fall back on - besides which, what if your father decides he doesn't want to keep funding this rendezvous? Are you going to get a job, support yourself?”

“Well… What about my art? You don't think it’s good enough?” Peter looked particularly wounded at this. 

“I _love_ your art Peter, you know that. But being an _artist_ , it's not a stable way to make a living, you can’t rely on that.” Thomas knew from experience the significance of financial stability, of being self-supporting. It wasn’t practical to rely on someone else for your own survival. 

“The money doesn’t matter-”

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter much when you’ve always had it!” Thomas cried. Despite his nature and his rejection of society’s rules, Peter was still very much a dandy. “I’m just… I’m trying to be realistic here.”

“I just don't understand why you're fighting me so hard on this. Thomas. When it would make me so very happy.” Peter’s words had gotten increasingly hoarse.

Thomas stared at the floor, taking a long shaky breath. Exhaling through his nose. Every part of him fought against showing vulnerability, but this was _Peter_ , and he couldn’t let Peter think it was his own fault, that Peter didn’t deserve any piece of happiness he could get within his grasp. 

“Sometimes I feel as though….” He looked to the ceiling, feeling ridiculous. “As though I’m cursed. Like... I’m not good. Like nothing good could ever happen to me.” 

“But isn’t this good?” Peter shook his head, frantic, disbelieving.

“Yes. So it can’t be... real.” He struggled to find the right words. A headache was starting to form in his temples, sharp and throbbing. "Peter, I like you very much... and I do believe you're fond of me too. But you've only known me for two weeks and you’ve already decided you want to spend the rest of your life with me? What about when you get bored of me?”

“I could never-”

“You could and you will,” Thomas said sharply, his spite fuelled by his own insecurity. “And what then? Are you going to ship me back to England, jobless and penniless?”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Peter’s eyes were brimming with tears. “You know I would never do that. I could never hurt you in that way. I should rather die.”

Thomas frowned, then sighed and took his hand once more. “Don’t say that. And I know you wouldn’t, I’m sorry. But regardless… this could never work. It’s a nice idea, of course it is. I just don’t think it’s possible.” He reached out his hand to graze Peter’s cheekbone. “Can’t we just make the most of the time we do have together?”

He didn’t think Peter could comprehend how hard it was for him to say no to this. It was hard enough for him to deny Peter anything, but this was especially grating to him - because he _wanted_ it. He wanted it so badly it hurt.

“Fine.” The typically optimistic look in Peter’s eyes had stormed over into something dark that left Thomas with a sense of impending dread. “I should be getting back now.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose they’ll be missing you.”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Peter turned back for a moment and Thomas winced at the sadness in his eyes. “But I should still be getting back all the same.”

“Peter…” Thomas protested. But there was no urgency in it. Peter was already gone.

* * *

There were three days left of Peter’s visit, and though he spent the whole time in despair, he didn’t avoid Thomas. They still stole moments in the passageway, and he still left his door ajar every night for Thomas to sneak through - though they never slept together again.

It seemed Thomas’ refusal of a one way ticket to Tangiers had broken any semblance of Peter’s stability. His poetic ramblings lacked a certain passion they'd had before Thomas’ rejection. His words were still beautiful, of course, but felt empty. And whereas he had only seen hints of Peter’s self destruction in the past weeks, it was now out in full force. Peter started to get drunk at dinner. Thomas didn’t see him painting for the rest of his stay, he most often found him smoking at his desk or on his bed, completely dissociating. Nor did he see his own portrait make another appearance. 

Thomas himself had been spending time in the servants hall in leisure between tasks. He wanted a cigarette, but it was forbidden to smoke inside downstairs at Sulgrave. Not wanting to stand outside alone right now, he had to divert himself by chewing on a jagged hangnail instead. He sat alone, his thumb stinging, trying to act as if his mind wasn’t overrun with thoughts of Peter, until Rodney forcefully requested he join him outside for a smoke. 

Rodney lit both of their cigarettes and leant against the brick as he began to smoke his, obviously waiting for Thomas to talk. Clearly he had not been as stone-faced as he’d thought. 

“He asked me…” They were alone but Thomas still lowered his voice. “Peter asked me to run away with him. To Morocco.”

Rodney paused with his cigarette halfway to his mouth and gave him an alarmed look. “ _Morocco_?” He stiltedly took another drag. “Blimey. I don’t know about that, Thomas. I like the man, but he seems a bit... flighty, don’t you think?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. There was no way in hell he was going to let Rodney think his opinion had weighed in on his decision. His ego didn’t need it.

“I already told him no.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Wait-” Rodney took a double take. “You’re having second thoughts.” 

“No. _No_ -” he stressed when Rodney continued to give him that knowing look. 

“You in love with him?”

“No… No, I’m not.” A part of him wished he was. Perhaps it would make this all easier. If he was in love with Peter, there was no doubt in his mind that he would jump at the chance to move to Morocco. He wouldn’t let Peter board the boat without him. He wouldn’t have had to make this decision. “But I do... like him. I care about him. And besides all that, it would still be a promotion wouldn’t it? And when else am I going to get the opportunity to go to Morocco? Or anywhere, for that matter?”

“So? What’s holding you back then?”

“We could get caught. We could fall out. He could change his mind. I’m afraid he only asked me on a whim. That he hasn’t thought it through.” He grimaced. “Sometimes he seems kind of… I don’t know. Not in his right mind. I don’t like the idea of him fleeing the country, being cut off from all his family. I don’t think he should be all alone.”

“Thomas, it’s nice that you’re so concerned about his wellbeing, however uncharacteristic.” Thomas’ glare did nothing to deter his lecture. “But it’s not your responsibility to chaperone a lord you just met. And if he’s so unstable, do you really want to be stranded in another country with him for god only knows how long?”

Thomas stayed silent, smoking, holding his breath in so long his lungs and eyes burned with it.

“I’ve told you before. Having a fling with one of them isn’t a big deal, but when you get involved with them? Invested? That’s when it can get risky.” Rodney stopped gesturing around with his cigarette as he arrived at the apex of his speech. “I just don’t want you to lose any more. Not when you’ve managed to build yourself a steady life here, with a decent future. You’re well on your way to becoming a valet, you don’t have to jump at this chance as if it’s the only way you’re going to work up the ladder.” 

Content to leave Thomas to mull that over, Rodney dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and scuffed it against the pavement with his shoe. Shaking his head, he began to make his way back inside, but paused.

“Only you, Thomas,” he said with falsified wonderment, “Only you could so thoroughly charm a man in the span of _two weeks_ that he wants to take you off gallivanting to Morocco.”

“I wasn’t trying to-”

 _“_ He wasn’t even trying! _”_ Rodney threw his head back and laughed, and narrowly missed Thomas’ cigarette being flung at him as he walked back inside.

* * *

It wasn’t until the night before Peter and his father were due to leave Sulgrave that Peter really broke down again. Peter had been getting increasingly antsy at the idea of returning home with his father, and this had led to another blowout between them. Thomas was sitting at the foot of Peter’s bed while Peter was curled up against the headboard in his nightclothes, trying to smoke a cigarette between teary, breathless sobs.

“My father despises me, and he barely even attempts to hide it any more. He sees what I am, he’s always seen it, and he spits on me. I am the devil to him, Thomas, _the devil_. And I’m sure he wouldn’t give a damn if I went to hell.”

“Peter, I...” But Thomas couldn’t even say for sure that it wasn’t true. He knew all too well it was possible for a parent to hate their child. 

Peter dragged the heels of his palms down his face, causing his eye sockets to stretch grotesquely. ”I just… I’m so tired, Thomas. I’m tired of being here, with these people. They don’t know me. They don’t care about me. They all want me to change what I am, _who_ I am, but I know the problem here does not lie with me. With us. It’s with the world. So why should I be the one to change?” He reached over to stub out his cigarette in the crystalline ashtray on his bedside table before climbing off the bed to start tossing his belongings into his trunk. “You must understand why I need to escape, get away.”

He was still struggling to get his breathing under control. This was the most worked up Thomas had even seen him. It didn’t matter how much of a front Peter could keep up majority of the time, his father could cut straight through it with a harsh remark. The fact that Peter held his own, never weakening in the face of his father despite how defeated he felt inside, the way he expressed his own wants, his own dreams, his own _self_ so _purposefully_ made Thomas admire him all the more. Peter wanted so badly to be liked, but he wasn’t prepared to cut himself down to fit into someone else’s box. Thomas respected that, because deep down he knew was the same. 

But there was nowhere Peter could run that would be far enough away to escape the effect of his father’s scathing words. Not even Tangiers.

“You really believe things are so different anywhere else?” His tone wasn’t condescending, just sincerely curious. 

“Maybe not but… it’s _away_. Away from here, away from them. Even if it isn’t a reprieve for all men like us, it would be a reprieve for me.”

“I suppose so. But if you want me to understand why you have to leave, then you must accept why I can’t.”

“I guess I do. It was wrong of me to ask it of you. Why should I expect you to want to make that kind of commitment to me?” Peter’s tone was flat, and he didn’t look up from where he was making half-hearted attempts to fold his clothing.

“That’s not it, Peter. I think you’re amazing, probably the most amazing man I’ve ever met. It’s just too risky. I don’t have enough faith in the world we live in to hope that things could work out for us.”

“I wish you did. I am very disappointed.” Peter spat out, finally whirling around to look at him. Thomas could see instant remorse in his eyes as his whole stance deflated. He lowered himself to the floor, not quite a collapse, but near enough. 

“I’m sorry, Thomas. It’s not your fault. It’s not you I’m angry at, not really. Please don’t take it to heart. I just-” Peter rambled, muffled by his own hands.

“I know,” Thomas said softly. He knelt next to him. “None of this is fair on us.”

His face was back in his hands, but he wasn’t even crying properly anymore, just letting out frantic wet huffs. 

“Peter…” Thomas wanted, _needed_ , to say something that would make it all okay, to show Peter that he was here for him, that he would repay the kindness he had been shown.

But he couldn’t find the words. All he could do was stay crouched beside the man, and rest a solid hand against his shoulder blades. But Peter shook him off. 

“You should leave.”

“I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“No, I… it’s getting too close to morning. You need to get back to your room.” 

“...You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

Peter sniffed and used the wall to help him stand. 

“I’m fine. Please leave.” he said firmly, walking to his nightstand to light another cigarette.

And Thomas did leave. In part because he knew that was what he would have wanted, for someone to listen to him when he needed to be alone. There were times where he just couldn’t stand to be around other people, and nothing would make him more agitated than someone assuming he was just being evasive. It could be hard for him to get a read of Peter. But he couldn’t deny it was partially due to his own discomfort at dealing with other people’s emotions. He couldn’t tell what was worse, the mortifying unease and uncertainty that came with trying to comfort another person, or the gnawing guilt of allowing Peter to isolate himself.

* * *

The day of Peters departure, Thomas stood in front of Sulgrave Manor with the rest of the staff. He knew his jaw was too set, his back was too straight. He supposed he was overcompensating for the fact he felt as though he was falling apart. His mind was overcome with regret and apprehension. Though he still felt his decision was the one that had to be made, he was unsure if it was the right one. And more importantly, he had never wanted to hurt Peter, and he knew he had.

Peter walked over to the car haltingly, making his goodbyes to Lord Strudwick and the family. He was putting on a good show. If it wasn't for the darkness under his eyes, Thomas would see no indication of his breakdown the night before. Lord Hexham was giving Lord Strudwick a firm handshake, with Peter trailing behind him. Once he reached the end of the lineup, his father had climbed into the automobile, and Peter was left alone on the driveway. Before following his father, he paused in front of Thomas. His eyes searching Thomas’ face, he leaned in closer to him, much closer than he should have in front of everybody. 

"You haven't changed your mind?” He murmured.

Thomas took in a sharp breath and managed to give him the most restrained shake of his head that he could. He tried to make his eyes convey what the situation wouldn’t allow him to speak aloud.

_You might be the best man I’ve ever known. You’ve changed my life. You’ve changed me. I want to go with you. I wish I could go with you. If we lived in a better world I would go with you. I’m scared to leave you all alone, but I’m more scared of what could happen if we stayed together. I wish I could give you what you want._

Other than the slight crease that appeared between his brows, Peters expression was disturbingly blank. His smile returned as he dragged his eyes off Thomas to give the family one more nod and wave, before joining his father in the car. All too quickly the gravel was crunching beneath the wheels, and the vehicle had taken off down the drive. The family and staff gathered were already starting to deteriorate, but Thomas couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, continuing to stare as the car got farther and farther in the distance.

* * *

Thomas had watched Peter, on that hot day in summer, as he ate a black plum, his teeth tearing through the delicate skin of the fruit. Trickles of its sticky crimson juice spilled between his fingers, and he ran his tongue along the tendons of his forearm to catch them before they reached his shirtsleeve.

There was still a faint red stain left on the pale skin of his wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> me 4 years ago after hearing about peter pelham for the first time: I just think he's neat !
> 
> Prequel to my fic always alone, but I don't think it really matters which you read first. Hopefully this wasn't too much of a mess !
> 
> Dedicated to nikkie lomonte for all of the support, advice and ideas for greek references that i ultimately underutilized ily
> 
> Please let me know if anyone wants anything else to be tagged! ♥


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